


Star Crossed Lovers

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft To The Rescue, Protective Mycroft, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:39:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft is a more complicated person than people give him credit for. He's looking out for Sherlock, which might be why he took so long to really see Greg.





	Star Crossed Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> This work arose from a conversation with the lovely [CasMonster1](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Casmonster1/pseuds/Casmonster1) on Facebook. I wrote two stories from the same prompt, actually, and they went in totally different directions, which was unexpected but good. 
> 
> The Prompt: this [ meme ](https://ifunny.co/fun/w4I9k7KZ3?gallery=tag&query=mystrade) appeared, and CasMonster1 and I took that and ran with it, winding out ideas as to why they never meet, though they are at the same crime scenes. 
> 
> This is the second version, which bears no relation to the first, [Antebrachium](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10697055). This is set right before the start of ASiP - a prequel to that last scene, if you will.
> 
> Thanks to [DownpourOfFeels](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DownpourOfFeels/pseuds/DownpourOfFeels) for helping this go from a random pile of words to this finished story. You're a star!

Sherlock never knew the lengths to which his brother had gone to ensure a steady stream of problems to keep his brain working smoothly.

It had been a simple thing, when Mycroft realised it was puzzles keeping his brother’s intellect engaged to find the most likely candidate within Scotland Yard; there were few that would be open to the idea of using a resource such as Sherlock. The usual background checks revealed a surprising number of dishonest and illegal practices amongst the Yarders.

Gregory Michael Lestrade, however, newly promoted to the rank of Detective Inspector, had been the best of a bad lot. More than that, actually; his tenacity and ability to work through and around the bureaucracy while keeping everyone happy was a rare skill. Mycroft knew immediately this was the man for the job. He would observe first hand before committing to his choice, but something told him Gregory Lestrade would be more than acceptable. His instinct was rarely wrong.

+++

The night was cold, and Mycroft was concerned that his breath in the frigid air would highlight his position. Anthea dropped him further away than strictly necessary, and he stood in the shadows of a doorway, watching the scene across the road. Another body had been discovered, surely the work of the serial killer currently terrorising London.

Mycroft’s sharp eyes watched Lestrade move around the scene, examining details and conferring with his team. Though Mycroft was too far away to hear their words, he studied the body language of both the DI and the others around him. He could read the respect they held for him in their posture; he obviously trusted them to do their jobs, though the forensic officer didn’t look too competent. Sherlock would have a field day with him, Mycroft thought, especially when he deduces the affair with that pretty Sergeant.

Mycroft watched the progress of one rough hand being pushed roughly through Lestrade’s silver hair, and a sudden temptation to do the same overcame him. He shook it off, disconcerted, and raised one hand, alerting Anthea to his readiness to depart.

If he was honest with himself, Mycroft Holmes knew of his flair for the dramatic, and he employed it regularly, especially with people from whom he required a level of unquestioning obedience.

Thus he sat, apparently completely at ease, in Lestrade’s office one Monday morning. He knew his presence in Lestrade’s space would unsettle him, allowing Mycroft to potentially glean more information than if he was prepared for this encounter. Sure enough, the officer did a classic double take at Mycroft’s presence, and his quick assessing glance up and down sent a frisson through Mycroft. He hid it well, though it took an extra second before he could address Lestrade.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector,” he offered smoothly, standing.

After faltering initially, Lestrade strode around his desk, placing his coffee down before asking bluntly, “Who are you, exactly?”

“An interested party, shall we say.” Mycroft was deliberately obtuse on this point.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and replied sceptically, “Interested in what? Or who?”

Mycroft allowed a small smile to cross his face. “You, Detective Inspector. I have a resource at hand that will allow you to close cases with significantly increased efficiency.”

Lestrade sat down, leaning back in his chair, his gaze assessing Mycroft.

For his part, Mycroft sat and waited, knowing this was the most critical part of their interaction – where Lestrade decided whether or not he was interested in what Mycroft had to offer.

“I’m listening,” Lestrade finally responded, though cautiously.

Excellent, Mycroft thought, and began the explanation of what Sherlock could offer. He was adept at the politics of language, and he could see Lestrade becoming more interested as he spoke.

“What’s the catch?” Lestrade finally asked.

“He’s a recovering addict,” Mycroft admitted, “and he can be excruciatingly difficult to deal with.” The eyebrows rose again, and Mycroft detected both admiration for his honesty and disbelief that Mycroft was telling the truth. Mycroft waited again. Silence and patience were two of his most valuable tools, and he was more than happy to let Lestrade consider his options.

“Alright, bring him in and he can have a look at a couple of cold cases. If he’s as good as you say he is, I can probably bend the rules to get him onto an active scene or two.”

Mycroft nodded graciously, knowing that Sherlock would certainly impress the Yard. It was more about whether Lestrade and Sherlock could find a way to work together, and that was something even Mycroft could not deduce.

+++

Seated in his car, on another dark night, Mycroft looked at his brother with a sense of uncharacteristic pride. The younger man had not spotted his brother, nor had his companion; Mycroft took the opportunity to watch his brother interact with the other man.

They appeared to be a good match, though a traumatised ex-Army doctor would not have been his first choice for Sherlock. The two men spoke and laughed with ease, their comradery growing even as Mycroft watched. As he wondered how Lestrade would take this change to their working dynamic, Mycroft alighted from his car, alerting the doctor to his presence. They spoke, of course, he and Sherlock falling into their well-worn rhythm.

As Mycroft turned to look at the doctor (Watson, his name was John Watson), a movement near the ambulance caught his eye. It was Gregory.

+++

Mycroft couldn’t pinpoint when it was that he had stopped thinking of him as ‘Detective Inspector Lestrade’ and when he had become simply ‘Gregory’. They had met many times since that first meeting, almost exclusively regarding Sherlock, sometimes for an intelligence link to a Yard case, and very rarely, their conversation turned personal.

Although Mycroft guarded himself carefully, he found he was drawn to the rough detective with the shock of silver hair. He was loyal and brave, two qualities Mycroft found particularly appealing, but Gregory was more than that. He was funny and compassionate, considerate and empathetic, and Mycroft found himself looking forward to any interaction they might have. The few moments in which either of them let down their defences had been carefully salted away into Mycroft’s mind palace for review and repeated enjoyment. They included such details as the precise colour of his eyes, the way his hands shaped around a cup of bad coffee; Mycroft had not realised so many particulars could be noted from one person.

Mycroft had just been considering how he might approach Gregory in a more personal way when Anthea had placed the file on his desk. It was the same as dozens of other ‘Initial Alert’ files over the years. He opened it and scanned the summary, a heavy mass settling against his chest. He forced himself to breathe past it, the letters swimming in front of his eyes.

_ Initial Alert Summary _

_Name: Carla Ann LESTRADE, wife of Gregory Michael LESTRADE_

_D.O.B: 05.03.79_

_Personal relationship between Carla Ann, and MORIARTY, James Andrew (see file). James is known to MI5, has a specific interest in the OTTER; (Gregory Michael, see file) works unofficially with the OTTER. Potential for Carla Ann to pass information regarding the OTTER to James._

_Action: Surveillance only._

 

Mycroft’s brain assimilated the information as he flicked through the details of the file. All personnel that came in direct contact with Sherlock (codename, OTTER) were under surveillance, and there was a team specifically employed to scrutinise the reports for any potential problems.

What Mycroft admitted to nobody was that the people around Gregory had also been given the same surveillance status. Moriarty was known to have an interest in Sherlock; the fact that he was sleeping with Gregory’s wife may or may not be a coincidence. The problem was the universe was rarely so lazy, and Mycroft could not ignore this piece of intelligence.

Alerting Moriarty was out of the question – a confirmation of MI5’s surveillance would only send him further underground, making him harder to monitor. He was unpredictable and dangerous and one of the first unprofessional instincts he’d ever felt was stirring in him now – he had to protect Gregory. The link, however tenuous, between Gregory and Moriarty must be severed, and in a way that did not endanger the lives of the innocent people involved.

There was only one way – Gregory had to be told of his wife’s affair, that he might end their union and unintentionally distance himself from Moriarty and the danger he held.

Mycroft felt sick, the turmoil swirling in his belly. How could he possibly imagine any form of personal relationship with Gregory after this? He would be obliged to tell Gregory what he knew, show him the photographic proof. And yet there was no tactful way to explain how he was so certain of the fact, or even why he was telling him at all, without breaking a number of laws and endangering the whole Moriarty situation.

There was only one solution. Mycroft’s exceptional deductive powers having considered every possibility: he must tell Gregory the truth, however difficult it may be. Only a confession of his affection would convince Gregory of Mycroft’s sincerity, though it would break Mycroft’s heart. Mycroft’s cross would be to bear the certain contempt and let Gregory walk away.

With a sinking heart, Mycroft lifted the phone, arranging the meeting that would certainly change his life.

+++

As he stared across the dark street at the hunched over form of Gregory, talking to the paramedic, Mycroft’s eyes filled with unbidden tears. Absentmindedly, he sparred with Sherlock, barely needing to hear his brother to know how to respond. Blinking rapidly, he was grateful that neither man seemed to notice.

They left eventually, Sherlock throwing one final line over his shoulder before they strode away. Mycroft took a second to pull himself together, back resolutely to the ambulance. This was the time and place he’d asked Gregory to meet, and he would wait, as he always did, for Gregory to notice him and extricate himself from the scene.

Automatically, Mycroft upgraded the security status on his brother before turning to face the police tape again, Anthea slipping away as Gregory ducked under and strode across the wet cobblestones towards Mycroft.

“For Queen and Country,” he murmured as Grego- _Detective Inspector Lestrade_ approached.

They exchanged basic pleasantries, Lestrade’s face patient as always. He knew Mycroft would not be rushed.

Heart pounding, Mycroft took a deep breath and began, laying out the exploits of Mrs. Lestrade with efficiency and as little emotion as he could muster.

As Mycroft went on to detail his actions and the motivation behind them, he catalogued the emotions flickering across Lestrade’s face – disbelief, anger, shock, embarrassment, as Mycroft allowed himself a moment of poetic description.

The disappointment and heartache Mycroft had expected to see did not appear, however; it was relief that showed so clearly; the grin of a man whose suspicions have been confirmed. As they stared at each other, Mycroft having finished what he needed to say, Greg’s smile faded, and his cheeks may have been tinged with pink.

Either way, Lestrade relieved or shocked, Mycroft’s presence was no longer required here.

Taking in the solemn face one last time, Mycroft turned to leave, the sharp stab of regret for a life unlived renting a hole in his chest. The rush of blood in his ears blocked out all ambient sound, and it was only the weight of a hesitant hand on his shoulder that paused his heavy footsteps.

He turned, disconcerted by the overture. Surely, Detective Inspector Lestrade would have nothing further to say?

Unable to speak, lest he give himself away, Mycroft waited.

Tentatively, hand still resting on Mycroft’s shoulder, Detective Inspector Lestrade spoke of his difficult marriage, the blind eye he’d turned to his wife’s lover, unable to be sure of her dishonesty. His tone warmed as he went on, explaining the strength he’d drawn from his talks with Mycroft, the quiet confidence in his abilities buoying him even as his failing relationship brought him low.

Hope bloomed softly, growing with each phrase, until Mycroft raised his lowered gaze to meet Detec- _Gregory’s_ eyes.

A long pause, in which Mycroft hardly dared draw breath, before the words tumbled out of Gregory – the confusion he’d felt as his regard for Mycroft developed into something more, the disloyalty as his defiant heart yearned after the man in the suit, while his wife, however unfaithful, waited for him. The flood of relief when Mycroft explained that he had proof of her actions, that his instincts had not been wrong, and the amazement at Mycroft’s further statements of his affections, brave and bold, unknowing that the secrets of his heart were mirrored in Greg’s.

Aware, as always of their surroundings, Mycroft swallowed hard. Perhaps this was a dream, perhaps not. Either way, there was one step now, one small step for him to accept and to give that for which he had yearned for so very long.

“Dinner?”

**Author's Note:**

> Now you could try the other story from the same prompt: [Antebrachium](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10697055)


End file.
